


The Grass Beneath His Feet

by DorMarunt



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Everyone is Dead, M/M, Picnic scene, there's some hanky-panky going on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29699991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorMarunt/pseuds/DorMarunt
Summary: “What is this place?”“That’s the question, isn’t it.” Andrés turns a blade of grass between his fingers, smearing them green. “I believe it’s Purgatory. It might as well be; I don’t see where else either of us would belong. I don’t know why we’re here, or for how long. Time doesn’t— It doesn’t flow here the way I was used to. From what I gathered from Nairobi, it’s been, what, two years? Since I got here.”
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	The Grass Beneath His Feet

“Professor, it was an honor.” Martín takes his finger off his earpiece, feeling the detonator in his other hand. This is it. He takes a long inhale, holds it, and on the exhale he presses the button.

He doesn’t feel it, and it’s probably a blessing. It’s such an instant shock that renders his mind too overwhelmed to even begin to process sensations. It’s a long second that drags, in which he’s filled with a visceral understanding - that he’s dying - followed by an immediate sense of acceptance. 

At least it’s quick. 

Before his eyes close, he can see that the walls have collapsed. They’d all make it out, after all. 

When he opens his eyes next, he’s not in the bank anymore. He doesn’t know where he is, except that it’s sunny, it’s warm, and it’s oddly quiet. There are trees, a lot of them; he’s in a thick forest, but there is something— _off_ about it. Martín can’t say what it is but it’s bothering him. He takes a couple of steps and suddenly the wind carries over the faint sound of voices. A woman’s laughter, then talking. Martín heads in that direction, cautiously speeding up. 

In the distance, the trees are thinning into what seems like a clearing. The voices are close now, and Martín jumps when he first sees motion - a flash of color. A man. He’s wearing a brown robe, and if he didn’t know any better, Martín could swear that it was—

The man turns and looks right at him, and Martín’s eyes dart around, startled, trying to find a place to hide. To disappear. 

He feels like he’s going to be sick. 

Even blinking is difficult but at least he doesn’t have to think about that like he has to think about setting one lead-heavy foot in front of the next. He barely manages to get two steps away until he has to catch himself against a tree. 

He’s dizzy, which is weird. It feels weird, Martín knows he should know _why_ it’s weird, but he can’t tell _why—_

Oh. Right.

He’s dead. 

He’s breathing hard, doubled over against that tree, and only registers that someone is beside him when they speak.

“Martín?”

Martín still fights to breathe, fights the urge to scrutinize why he’s even breathing to begin with. He’s dead, and that’s— that’s Andrés standing by his side.

He retches, dry, then coughs. He’s still not looking up, he’s not ready.

“Are you alright?”

“No.”

“Here, let me help,” says Andrés, and before Martín can protest, he steps closer, wrapping Martín’s arm over his shoulder. 

“Wait.” He wiggles free, stands up, finally lets himself look at Andrés. 

He was right, it still hurt.

Every day in the monastery he had to sit under his portrait, a constant reminder of what he was doing, and why. And everytime he laid eyes on that canvas, on Andrés’ piercing look, every single time, it hurt.

It hurts now, too.

Martín’s head is throbbing, the pain echoing sharply in his temples.

There are so many things he wants to ask, he can’t even decide on what to start with so he surprises himself when he says, simply, “I died.”

Andrés touches his shoulder, and the touch is definitely real. Martín closes his eyes, inhaling slow and deep.

Andrés is there.

Andrés; not footage of him, not pictures in the papers, not his portrait hung in a monastery. He’s really there. The last time they were this close—

That last time.

The punch takes them both of them by surprise; Martín hisses when he retreats his fist, and Andrés takes a step back with the force of the blow, arms flailing to keep his balance.

He just punched Andrés in the face.

So he didn’t exactly plan that; it just happened, and Martín regrets it the second he realizes what he’s done, when he begins to feel the sting in his knuckles. 

“I guess I deserved that.” Andrés is gingerly touching his cheekbone, where blood begins to heat the skin. 

Floating still in the world of no forethought and giving in to base emotions, Martín lunges forward, making Andrés catch himself again. He’s responding though, bringing Martín closer, angling his head to catch his lips and moaning into the kiss. It feels almost surreal, that it feels so natural, that it’s _happening_ to begin with. 

He almost breaks the kiss but Andrés pulls him back in, making these sounds, the same needy, almost hurt sounds that Martín so vividly remembers from that last time - that first time.

Finally, when air grows scarce around them, they part.

The dizziness is back.

A small stalemate happens, while they both seemingly regroup their thoughts. Andrés relaxes his stance, finally sitting down by the root of the tree. Martín joins him, grateful for the support of the tree behind him. 

He lifts his eyes to the Heavens - wherever they were, they surely weren’t in Heaven - and squeezes his eyes in gratitude. His voice is soft when he finds the strength to speak. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

Andrés is still silent, touching his lips instead of the bruise that is slowly blooming on his cheek. They’re dead, they’re all dead, all of them, even himself. They’re all dead and it seems that Andrés is just getting to the same realization.

“Martín?”

They both look up when the light catches in the red shimmer of an approaching form. The fluid cascade of red satin is Nairobi, who’s walking to them so slowly, her movements velvety-smooth like she’s barely touching the grass under her feet.

Martín isn’t aware of doing it, but suddenly he’s on his feet, hugging Nairobi, then placing hard kisses on the side of her head. He can’t find the words so he squeezes her again, and she laughs.

“Did you get it? The gold?” Her eyes are wide, enthusiasm painted on her face. It’s barely been a couple of days since they’ve put her body in that box but it feels like _months_. He’s missed her. He nods, and she somehow smiles brighter, pulling a smile out of him too.

“Yes, we got the gold.”

“And…” she lets the question hang a bit, looking around her and then back at Martín. “La banda?”

“They made it out. Everybody’s safe.”

The laughter that Moskow makes is a nervous one, and Martín looks at him, startled to find him behind them. There’s wetness in his eyes that he’s obviously fighting to keep in.

“Danny made it?”

“Yes. Both him and Stockholm. They’ll meet with Cincinnati somewhere— I don’t know where, the Professor knows all these things. But they all got out.”

Oslo is rubbing his eyes beside him, laughing with relief. Martín doesn’t know him - he doesn’t really know Moscow either, but he’s seen his picture and Denver spoke of him often enough that he didn’t feel quite like a stranger. 

They all listen in quiet fascination when Martín tells them all what happened after Nairobi died. How they managed to do it, how they melted the gold, how they got it out. How everyone got out safely.

Well, almost everyone.

The sun doesn’t seem to have moved, but the conversation lulled and Martín and Andrés retreated under a tree at the edge of the meadow. Andrés watches his friends talk until he gets distracted enough that he stops hearing them altogether.

“What is this place?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it.” Andrés turns a blade of grass between his fingers, smearing them green. “I believe it’s Purgatory. It might as well be; I don’t see where else either of us would belong. I don’t know why we’re here, or for how long. Time doesn’t— It doesn’t flow here the way I was used to. From what I gathered from Nairobi, it’s been, what, two years? Since I got here.” 

“Five since we’ve last seen each other.” 

Andrés drops his head. He looks out at the figures in front of them, all seemingly floating while sitting motionless, feeling strangely removed from them, filled with a different energy altogether. 

“I’ve been thinking about that. The chapel. The things I said— I played those minutes in my head so many times. I’m so sorry, Martín.”

Five long years in which Martín’s been through all stages of grief, twice. 

It’s probably fate, karma, the consequences of his actions that made it so that he wouldn’t hear these words until after death, but he heard them. 

It does feel better.

Just a bit; the wounds are too deep, they’ve dried and scabbed but they were still an ugly, painful thing that Martín’s carried around for too long, that shaped him into who he became. Into who he was now. It’s going to take a while for these wounds to close, but at last it feels like they finally would.

Martín sighs, looking down at the grass beneath his feet. He’s dead, they all are, this was it. This _is_ it. 

“Do you think we’ll... move on? To someplace else?”

Andrés shrugs, leaning back against the cool tree. 

“Maybe. If it’s all about the ones of us involved in the heists, then maybe we’ll be here until we’re all together - the family. Who knows; I’ve learned it’s pointless to get caught in these hypotheticals.”

“So what do we do?”

“We wait.”

“Oh.” It feels foreign, hollow. There’s a pull inside Martín, this void that needs filling but he doesn’t know how. Impossibly, it’s a new feeling, one he’s never had before and doesn’t even have the words for it. 

“I missed you so much.” It somehow takes the wind out of Martín’s sails, the short sentence and the quiver in Andrés’ voice; it brings him down to the here and now - whatever they may have been. “I’m sorry I didn’t come see you. I should have. I could have, and I wanted to, so many times. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“I didn’t either,” says Martín. He thought about it, about marching back and delivering one of the many speeches he thought about while alone, in the shower, or drunk in his bed. He’s had that speech ready at one point, he’s thought of every single thing that Andrés could have said back and had an answer for it. He knew when he wasn’t wanted, though. That was the part that hurt him most, to _finally_ accept that he wasn’t wanted.

He’s lived with it for a decade, and then suddenly forgot - a few words from Andrés about love and soulmates, the brief opening of a window of hope and it all flew out. Because he had accepted it once before, that he’d just get the chance to love Andrés, but never the opportunity to have it reciprocated. He managed to understand it after some long years, and then Andrés had to go and tell him that he loved him. 

“Did you mean all that? What you said before—”

“Yes,” Andrés says, without a hint of hesitation. “I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t know anything for the longest time.”

Andrés turns to him, leaning in until their shoulders touch. 

“I’ve thought about that for so long, about what I would say if I saw you again. The only thing that I can say is that I’m sorry. It’s not enough, but nothing can be enough after that. There are many excuses I can make, all valid, but none can make things right. For either of us. I love you, Martín. And I hurt you. I wish I could change that, but—” He gets quiet, seemingly motionless for a bit. There’s wind - Martín can’t exactly feel it, but the grass is swaying gently, leaves flutter and the shade shifts with them. “I haven’t fallen in love since. I thought I had, I certainly tried to, but it wasn’t—” He raises one shoulder, then shakes his head. He looks tired, older somehow, even than the images that Martín has seen of him from the heist. The last images he’s seen of Andrés were mugshots and footage from that interview in the bank, and the horrible image burnt on Martín’s mind, of a dark body bag being wheeled into a van while dozens of cameras flashed, hungry for the spectacle. 

It makes Martín angry to think of that. 

“I haven’t either. I bet you’re not surprised.”

“I wanted you to, you know. I wanted you to be happy, to find someone and to fall in love and to live, Martín. _I wanted you to live_. That's what I was giving you; I thought I was saving you. I’ve done so many awful things convinced that they were right, when in fact— I wish I’d done something while we were still— alive,” he laughs, softly. 

“We have this, though. We have now.”

“We do,” Andrés says, leaning in, touching his forehead to Martín’s. An intimate gesture that he leans into, he surrenders to the small spell between them and angles for a kiss. Hopeful and careful, he places a kiss on Andrés’ lips, and it feels right, just like the first time, just as right but with none of the weight. It was fear the first time around, an undercurrent of hope; and it was sheer anger the last time, after the punch. It was all heartbreaking relief when their lips meet now and their noses brush, slotting together so perfectly. There’s no more of that hunger of their first time, when Andrés kissed him like he wanted to consume him whole, when Martín crumbled under the weight of what it meant. 

To make things sweeter, Andrés’ fingers curl under Martín’s jaw, tipping his head back to get a better angle, parting his lips to tease, only to be mirrored by Martín, with his fingers along Andrés’ cheek, right over that bruise, where the skin feels slightly warmer, and his lips opening just enough to let a hot breath, a breathy moan— 

They’re kissing, hands tangled around each other, tasting the other’s breath. When they part to breathe, they lock eyes, sky-blue reflected in rich brown, both slightly dazed. They go back - a single breath, a single motion - and Andrés fists his hands in the front of Martín’s shirt, pulls him closer and he follows, a pull that he can’t resist - he never could.

That place, wherever it is, feels like a waking dream, and Martín is brought back towards the surface when he moves to straddle Andrés. He’s gotten so caught up in their kiss, in their hands grabbing at each other, in the buzz of energy flowing through them that he’s forgotten where they are. He sees a flash of bright red - Nairobi’s dress - and he startles.

“Not— not here. Let’s—”

Andrés follows his eyes, getting the same jolt when he seems to realize where they are - too close, definitely too close to the others. No one’s paying any attention to them though; Nairobi’s looking at Moscow and Oslo laughing and obviously sharing a story, even though no sounds cut through the stillness.

“Yes, let’s—” Andrés gets up, looking around. He nods towards the small patch of trees that line the clearing, and they start walking towards the shade. For some reason, Martín doesn’t dare turn around, an unexplained niggling fear that if he does, everyone will disappear. So he doesn’t, he reaches for Andrés’ hand and takes it, squeezing maybe a bit too hard. When was the last time he’s held Andrés’ hand like that? Before Tatiana, surely. They danced, that time in the parking lot, after breaking into that auction house. It can’t have been that long. It feels natural, it feels like home and god damn, Martín curses silently, god _damn_. He loves Andrés. 

They’ve been walking through the small path for a while before Martín realizes what exactly felt wrong all that time, ever since they entered the forest - the ground was covered in grass, a thick, raw-green that was untouched by any steps, unbroken by any other kind of flowers. Just - a thick carpet of green. All around them, a uniform wealth of trees sprout cleanly from the ground.

Martín laughs, but then shakes when Andrés turns to him with a confused look. It feels silly to say it out loud - that the grass was indeed greener on the other side - but it certainly seems to be.

When he lays down in the grass, under the shade of an old tree, it feels like the air is thick, resisting when he slides through it. Andrés’ shadow settles over him first - poetic, if anything - Martín feels like maybe laughing, maybe not - and then he straddles him, knees pressed to Martín’s sides.

The leaves above barely let any sunlight through, and yet it’s bright; Martín can almost _feel_ the sun around them, illuminating them inside and out. 

For a few moments, they’re still, and Martín looks at Andrés, so beautiful in the unnatural light, with this ethereal smile on his face. 

What were they doing? 

They never— 

There are too many questions; Martín can’t even begin to process what’s going on. Behind his eyelids, when he closes his eyes, he sees it again, the barrage of gunfire, the black of kevlar and the beams of light slicing through the smoke. There’s Sergio’s voice in his ear, with updates from the other members of the team. The button, the blast.

He’s dead. He’s most definitely dead, and yet here he is - in his own body. At least it _feels_ like his body, it responds like it always did, tactile feedback, physical reactions, the emotional response— everything. 

“I can’t believe it’s really you,” he says, releasing a hand to brush his fingers along Andrés’ face. “It feels like you.”

Andrés leans into his touch, his hand coming down to cup Martín’s, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss onto his knuckles. That’s when Martín sees it, the shirt he’s wearing, the same shirt he’s worn that night, with his sleeves rolled up just like they had been back then. He’s overrun by this feeling that it has to mean something, it has to mean— 

Andrés is pulling the shirt from his pants, then helps Martín to open the first few buttons and take the shirt off. It ends up discarded on the pristine grass, somewhere to their right, and Andrés’ robe and jacket soon join it, and the thought almost slips from Martín’s mind.

“Wait—” Martín stops Andrés when he starts to work on undoing his pants. He cups his hands, catches his eye. 

There’s a small possibility that this— whatever this is. That _this_ is their chance to end that one last remaining thread, and after they do— 

He’s dead. Andrés is dead too. They’re finally together. One last chance.

Martín shakes his head, trying to dislodge the _what ifs_ from his head.“Let me,” he says, lifting his hips to pull his pants down. Andrés does the same, and Martín can’t not look.

No one’s ever compared to Andrés, not in his eyes. Discreetly vain, that’s Andrés. Even naked, he moves confidently, with feline fluidity, as he lays on top of Martín, making sure to press as much skin against skin as he possibly can.

“I want to touch you,” says Andrés, in a voice low with _something_. 

“You can,” It’s all that Martín ever wanted, really. Those touches, with _that_ intent. “Have you—”

“Done this? Yes. I had to know. I thought it would maybe— not be the same, but maybe make it hurt less, somehow.” He speaks in the hollow of Martín’s neck, taking a moment to breathe deeply. “It didn’t. That’s not what I was looking for - it was never a ‘what’, it was a ‘who’. And he wasn’t you.”

Martín’s gut clenches, a visceral reaction to the image; Andrés and some other man. On the one hand— so many emotions, most of them with a direct physical counterpart in the rush of blood pooling to his dick, on the other— jealousy. And it’s not like Martín hasn’t fucked other guys since they last saw each other; he has, and not a few. He’s even tried to give in, to feel _more_. It didn’t happen, but he tried. Once or twice. Maybe never with a full heart, but he did, hoping— _yes_. Hoping that it would maybe make it hurt less. 

It didn’t. 

This is what it was supposed to be like, just the way Andrés’ weight pressed on him, stealing the edge off his breath, trailing a line of kisses across his jaw. And he’s dead, he’s surely dead, but this body is certainly alive; with every nerve burning hot, blood pumping, filling his cock, whooshing in his ears. He is dead and ironically, he feels more alive than at any other time in his memory. 

This can’t be real, not in any way that he used to define reality, and the more he thinks about it, the less he feels like he’s _there_. His eyes screw shut when Andrés shifts and the hardness that was pressed to his thigh presses against his own, and grinds. 

Suddenly, he doesn’t care if they’re far enough; the noise that leaves his lips is unguarded, unfiltered, and Andrés echoes him in a surprised groan that only has him grinding harder, closer. When he next opens his eyes, Andrés has shifted, resting on his elbow, spine curved, and he’s looking down between their bodies. He has both their cocks in hand, and he’s stroking them both in a tight fist. 

There’s a lightness in his head, a presence that knocks over things, taking space in Martín’s mind when he closes his eyes. He’s keening, forehead pressed in Andrés’ collarbone, and when he opens his eyes he begins to notice things. Like the wetness on his stomach, smeared by his cock, and the way he’s wrapped around Andrés, and the way his cock was spearing him open. 

Andrés pushes back on his hands, and Martín feels exposed, taken out of his hiding place. He looks up, looks into his eyes, and it’s nothing like he’s imagined. Every time he sees Andrés, he’s swept by just how much he loves him, and this time is no exception; if anything, he feels it more acutely now, when it’s paired with the look of wonder on Andrés’ face. His mouth is opened around a silent _oh_ , his brows furrowed, and in his eyes, there’s a devotion that Martín can almost sense. 

This is all he’s wanted, that look, that unspoken moan. It’s what’s behind it that Martín has been hungry for, for so long - and it’s all there, in Andrés’ eyes.

Andrés’ hips snap, deep thrusts that shake Martín’s whole body, making him slide along the slippery grass. The grass is cool beneath him and Andrés is beaming with heat, both from outside and from within. The fullness inside him resonates everywhere, in his chest where his heart feels bigger than his body, in his lungs that he can’t get enough air in, and in his head where thoughts are overflowing. He’s overwhelmed, relieved, heartbroken too in a way; it’s so much, it means so much that Martín closes his eyes again, just to cut off one sense, one less thing to focus on, and then— 

He’s folded in two, with Andrés’ body pressed against his own, his thrusts becoming deeper, punctuated by low moans, fingers that dig almost painfully in his hips. Martín is close, he can feel the release close, so close but still not quite there, when suddenly - he’s coming. He feels it begin in the root of his cock, spilling outwards in a full-body shudder that feels startlingly different for something so familiar. It’s dry, he realizes when he feels his cock still bounce heavy against his abdomen, and it seems to happen right as Andrés stills above him, inside him, muscles locked. 

He watches Andrés stop, squeezing his eyes in the tense second between two breaths, and then he groans, dropping forward, his cock twitching deep inside Martín. With that, those pulses filling him hotly, Martín comes, in a way that he _knows_ this time - he spills in the narrow space between their bodies, completely untouched, his cock jumping with each pulse. His toes curl like his spine, and he almost sobs when he finds his voice again.

“I love you.” Martín’s voice cracks midway, barely a whisper at the end. 

As the light around them swells, white and brilliant, Andrés leans in to press his lips to Martín’s, breathing a hot ‘I love you’ before he does. 

Martín’s eyes are closed when the light engulfs them whole, but he can feel it - he’s happy. He’s finally free.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be crack with awkward sex.
> 
> I failed.


End file.
